


Morpheus

by la_topolina



Series: The Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Continuity [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24654649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_topolina/pseuds/la_topolina
Summary: In their youth, Isidore Carter and Tom Riddle had lived and loved--but Isidore knew better than to put himself under Tom's rule forever. Now Tom is gone and Isidore spends a quiet evening reminiscing about all that might have been, when an impertinent young witch disturbs his peace.Young people today--they have no manners at all.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Tom Riddle/Original Male Character(s)
Series: The Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Continuity [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745833
Kudos: 6





	Morpheus

Unlike everything else that Isidore owned, the photograph was worn and wrinkled.

His clothing, his shoes, his books, his tools; all were immaculate, almost untouched, as though he drifted above the earth without touching it to leave a mark. It had been that way since his earliest days, growing up in a hovel with his numerous siblings and haggard parents. The world around him might be in chaos, might be gross and full of decay—but he, Isidore Carter—he was clean. He was special too. No one in his family before or since had been bestowed the powers he had. Powers he deserved. Powers with which he would cleanse the earth of the unworthy, like the fires of purification that the preacher thundered about of a Sunday. Only these fires would be wielded by him, and not a silent, anemic god in a distant heaven.

It was Sunday evening, and Isidore allowed himself the indulgence of elf wine, a fire, and memories. The worn photograph sat on his knee, and he fingered it lovingly, gazing at the face of the beautiful young man with rapture and regret. The man was dead, four years dead, or so they said. In that idyllic summer they had spent together in Naxos, Isidore had believed that neither of them could ever die—especially not he, not Tom, not ever. Even when they had parted, Isidore had been comforted by the knowledge that death was a force that could not touch either of them, not come near them; would wither as it approached and blow away like dry leaves. But now he remained, and Tom was gone, and all his forces were run aground and hid.

Even during that summer in their youth, Isidore had known that it couldn’t last. Neither man was willing to play second fiddle. They had parted amicably, knowing that to be the case. And it had been good, watching Tom from a distance, seeing his power grow while all the time Isidore had grown his own here, at home. It was time for wizards to take their place as the rightful rulers of the world. He had harbored a dream that one day, when they were each established in their own kingdom, they might come together from time to time. And while that part of the dream was gone, the rest was enough to fill Isidore’s days and warm his nights alone.

His head snapped up as he felt the tug of the wards around his house being broken. The picture went back into his pocket, and his wand was in his hand as he slowly rose from his chair. He was not at all surprised to see them in his library, he was only surprised that they had managed to get so far before he noticed. The girl was better than he had thought.

“I suggest you set your wand down and come with us quietly, Mr. Carter,” the girl said. 

She was a wild creature, grey eyes flashing and armed to the teeth like Minerva springing from her father’s forehead. The boy behind her was less so, stodgy and dull to Isidore’s eyes. 

“And face execution? I think not, Miss Rose. But if you and your pet choose to leave at once and cease this endless irritation of following me hither and yon, you may yet escape with your lives.”

“I guess we’ll be doing it the hard way, then.”

They were on him in an instant, hex after hex, circling his library and throwing all his careful arrangements into disarray. It was the work of a moment to throw off the boy, and Isidore sent him sprawling through the window and onto the porch. He gave the girl credit, she remained focused on him rather than attempting to run after her companion. She bombarded him with curse after curse, her hair standing on end as the power of her magic flew in all directions. 

“Tut, tut, my girl, such lack of control,” Isidore observed. His own hair and clothing were unruffled and his movements were small and quick, the shortest distance between two points, nothing wasted. “What a shame it will be to kill you, and I beg you to reconsider. What use is it for you to break yourself and your lover protecting scum who do not deserve it?”

“Did you really just ask me to join your side like a movie villain? Please.” She vaulted his desk, knocking papers and ink bottles every which way, and sent him reeling backwards into a bookcase with a curse.

“It seemed the polite thing to do.” Isidore rolled away from her assault and was on his feet in an instant, stepping over the leather bound tomes that littered the floor. 

The hellion was on him again, and he decided it was time to be finished with games. This girl and boy had been dogging him for months, tracking him and tracing him and giving him no peace. Those who could not be converted would be destroyed and, while it pained him to crush such a creature as this, it would be the work of a moment and forgotten just as soon.

A slash and a cross with his wand and it was over. She gasped as the curses hit her and sent her into another shelf (alas for Fitzgerald!). The volumes crashed over her body as she hit the floor, stunned and unable to rise. Isidore felt his lips curl into a smile as he advanced on her. This moment, the moment just before the kill was his favorite. The anticipation was more delectable than the culmination could ever be. 

“Get away from her!” the boy shouted as he scrambled back through the window.

Isidore stumbled as the boy’s hex hit him, tearing slashes in his smoking jacket. A miscalculation, not to be repeated, Isidore had thought the other infant accounted for. Rage suited the boy, his magic was flowing freely in a way it hadn’t been earlier, and Isidore had to shift his attention fully to his new opponent. He would come back for the other later. 

A combination of force and sloppiness drove the fight through the hall into the parlor. Isidore was not at all pleased with the damage being done to his house. It would take him weeks to repair. While he was contemplating this new irritation, a hex caught him in the shoulder, setting his smoking jacket aflame. He whipped it off, but he had no time to extinguish it, the boy was on him and he had to let the thing burn. The boy was stronger than Isidore had first thought, but now that he was paying attention, it was easy to see all the little ways that the boy communicated his next move. He was thinking too hard about each spell, a beginners mistake, and Isidore could read him like a book. 

As they cursed and parried, the smoking jacket caught Isidore’s eye again, and he could see the edges of the beloved photograph succumbing to the fire. He flicked his wand at it, absorbing the boy’s hex as he attempted to save the final remnant of the dream he had lost, not even feeling the pain. The fire extinguished, he rounded on the boy, and decided it was time to finish the business.

“ _Avada Kedavera_ ,” he cast, and the curse sent a thrill through him as his victim slid silently to the floor. 

He lowered his wand and was making to retrieve the talisman from the ashes of his jacket when pain and violation overcame him in the form of a knife to the throat. His hands went to the handle instinctively, but he was weak, too weak to do aught to budge it. Before he could completely understand what had happened, he was on the ground, fire burning in his veins as the girl jerked the weapon from him. He tried to speak, tried to scream, but nothing came while the pain shot through him. His head jerked backwards as the girl kicked it, and his eyes settled on the singed photograph. There was Tom, smirking at him, alive in the picture although dead in the world.

He kept Isidore company until the other man gave up the ghost.

**Author's Note:**

> This story explains an incident mentioned in Chapter 9 of [Moonlight:](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/18431546/chapters/43659938)
> 
> _After Miranda had drained the glass, Severus asked quietly, “David is one of the young men I saw dead?”_
> 
> _She looked away from him and gave a short nod. "We went to school together. We were going to be married. Had a date set and everything. Then we set out after a dark wizard, Isidore Carter. He must have taken a page out of Voldemort’s book, he was murdering No-Majs right and left.” She inhaled deeply to calm her voice. “I suppose you saw the rest.”_
> 
> _“I did.”_
> 
> Morpheus is the Greek god of dreams.
> 
> The chapter title is from a quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald.


End file.
